


Zerowingman - Crimson Side

by Just_Matt



Series: Zerowingman [2]
Category: Project Wingman (Video Game)
Genre: Caffeine Abuse, Crimson 1 POV [Edge Warning]
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:28:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28701468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Matt/pseuds/Just_Matt
Summary: Out of time, options and patience, a deranged peacekeeper enacts one final plot, hoping to stop the Cascadian War in its tracks.Out of time, options and patience, a desperate engineer reveals a stuck-up flyboy the truth about their world - and the greater threat that looms on the horizon.May he attain enlightenment.
Series: Zerowingman [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112333
Kudos: 4





	1. The Plan

**Author's Note:**

> A "prequel" to Her Showing, mostly written to try and flesh out some ideas about the nature of the Calamity that popped in my head after writing it.
> 
> Yes, I'm still ripping Eva and Zeroranger off. They're just that cool, can't help it.
> 
> Also, writing Crimson 1's POV is so much fun, holy shit. It's like of Shadow The Hedgehog got a pilot license and became a cop. I Love it.

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP! FIGHT US, DON’T TALK! I DON’T CARE!” 

Such insolence. 

Such unacceptable insolence.

It had been exactly twenty-one days, fifteen hours and twenty-seven minutes since Crimson One had last been in the air. Twenty-one days since that pack of mercenary dogs had slaughtered his squadron in their quest for blood and riches. Twenty-one days he had spent tied up in a hospital bed, not hunting them down - like he should have been. 

And now, judging by the radio traffic he occasionally managed to intercept, they were at the doors of Presidia, raining death and destruction on all who stood in the way of their big payout.

Disgusting. 

He would not, he could not allow them any quarter now. He had to intervene, whether his superiors liked it or not. He had to stop this rampage, and he knew exactly how to do so.

Clutching the controls of the MG.31 he had temporarily requisitioned from the airbase that had fished him up, Crimson One let out a deep breath as the plane easily shattered the sound barrier. 

He had a plan. An infallible plan.

He knew his superiors would have never approved of it, so he just didn’t tell them. Even under the most dire circumstances possible, they refused to act. They refused to make the right choice and act in the name of order. Of discipline. Of justice.

So, he would act in their stead - and once he’d buried that pathetic rebellion, then, then they’d understand. Then they’d acclaim him. Then he’d be the hero. Because that’s what he was, what he had always been. 

“Daedalus Actual to Unidentified Aircraft, you are currently entering a restricted airspace. Identify yourself or you will be marked as hostile. Do you copy?”

Without a hitch, Crimson reached for his radio transmitter, cleared his throat and opened a comm channel. His voice alone carried more weight than any IFF signature, and he knew that as much as they did.

“Daedalus Actual, this is Crimson One. I have been sent on an emergency inspection of your facility on behalf of Crystal Kingdom. My plane was shot down recently, so this is all they could spare for me. I will now pass over your runway, find a proper vector and begin landing procedures. Clear your runway.”

His delivery was, as usual, perfect. Cracking a smirk, Crimson could have sworn he had heard the radio operator gasp slightly, probably realizing he had almost threatened to shoot down one of the most important figures in the entire Federation military. 

He was right to be afraid.

“Oh, A-alright! Copy that, Crimson One. Runway’s clear, land at your leisure!”

And just like that, the Peacekeeper’s Foxhound screamed over the facility’s airport at near mach one, almost as to announce his arrival to everyone on the ground. This plan required a modicum of discretion to succeed, but he still couldn’t stop himself from doing that. Old habits die hard, he thought, taking his fighter around the base to align with the runway. 


	2. The Visit

Practically barricaded inside of his office, Chief Engineer Sigmund Lathinen wasn’t having a particularly great evening. Or a particularly great couple of months, for that matter. The Type C prototype had been shot down by some mercs during an air raid at the test rig, the Type B prototype had been lost in a kamikaze attack against the threat - and that only happened because those pillocks in the air force decided it was a good idea to enact that idiotic "Blaze" protocol just to put some scrappy rebels in line. So now the deadline had been considerably shortened and they were down two prototypes. He should have thrown this entire country under the bus years ago, he should have.

Taking a quick sip from his trusted coffee mug, Lathinen also noticed the beverage wasn’t hitting anymore - and that was also a problem, as he needed to, at least, pull another five hours if he wanted to get the final layer of radiation coating for Type A done within schedule. A schedule that, unfortunately, was as fixed as it could be. If only those blithering idiots were instructed properly...

Much to his annoyance, the engineer’s train of thought was ground to a halt by an unexpected visit. Unexpected because he had told that woman to stay out of his goddamn office unless they were literally being bombed - and as deep in thought as he was at that moment he was pretty sure he couldn’t hear any explosions. Nor feel the building shake- Nor-

“Dr. Lathinen? Apologies for the intrusion, but we may have a situation.”

Lathinen let out a sigh and took a last sip from a soon-to-be empty coffee mug. What else could be possibly going wrong now?

“I see. What is it? Did one of the test pilots get cordium poisoning yet? I told those imbeciles to keep their suits tightly sealed! “But it’s too small!”, “But my plums hurt!” - goddamn wimps. Flyboys are all like that, all like that I say. If it’s Lanza, tell him he had it coming. You don’t just stand around an active cordium reactor with “a loose zipper or two”. He can sue me to hell for saying that, I’d like to see him try.” 

“Uh...no, not at all. It’s Crystal Kingdom actually, they sent somebody to check on the project’s status - a surprise inspection of sorts. The envoy came alone, which is rather odd, but I’ve also heard the Federation has been moving more and more manpower out of country lately, so he may be all that’s left.”

Oh, excellent. A surprise inspection in the middle of a mass retreat. Because they just couldn’t keep their eyes off of him even as they folded out of Cascadia, the cowards. If things beyond this meaningless squabble weren’t as dire as they were, he would have retired in some wilderness cottage back home long ago. As he filled his coffee mug for what felt like the millionth time today, Lathinen spoke up with aggressive sarcasm.

“That’s just great, thank you Madeline. May I just ask who this envoy may be, before you go your way? It has to be a real top dog for CK to send him all the way here on his lonesome. What’s his deal?”

“He’s one of those Peacekeepers, a Cascadian national actually.” 

Oh no. Oh God No.

“He’s the squadron leader for the FP-01. Former squadron leader, at least - I hear they were wiped recently, a horrible loss for us all if I may add. He didn’t give reception a name, but his callsign…”

Thinking about the last time he had met the man who fit that profile, Lathinen felt the little will to live left in his body slowly evaporate. He groaned loudly, then dared a guess.

“...”Crimson One”?”

“Bingo! That’s the one.” 

Welp, at least Madeline was having fun.


	3. The Inspection

The Icarus Armory Daedalus Complex, arguably the firm’s most important site on Cascadian soil - something of an airbase mixed with a cutting-edge R&D facility. The common folk told stories about what Icarus was hiding in there, infantile drivel ranging from alien specimens to sentient supercomputers. If they could take a look for themselves, like he was doing now, they’d quickly realize how mundane the reality of things actually was.

“As you can see, our output remains constant despite the current…"

Strained-looking people pacing around endless neon-lit corridors, taking bundles of paperwork from one grey room to the next with soul-crushing regularity. Yet, Crimson knew for a fact most of these same people were actually lunatics - mad scientists under the guise of frustrated office workers - and that the paperwork they routinely handled with utter nonchalance could be more dangerous than any missile or cannon. There was a reason Crystal Kingdom considered this company the tip of their spear.  
So, all and all, the peacekeeper hoped he could leave this place without harming any of them - as taking even one of these lives could easily hurt the Federation’s R&D potential by an unpredictable margin. 

That did not need to happen. 

“Sir.” 

As the Federation’s Finest strutted along, accompanied by a couple of PR managers he was barely listening to, two armed guards watching over some sort of blast door pulled a salute, hoping he’d turn to them and grace them with his acknowledgement. Their show of respect was appreciated, so he flashed a gentle smile, nodding his head in their general direction. 

Pathetic.

The fact that these two-bit rent-a-cops even thought themselves worthy of saluting him made his skin crawl. They were little more than mercenaries serving the side of order - and Crimson knew how quick their loyalties could change once the enemy had a better offer. 

So, for the purpose of this operation, he had deemed them acceptable casualties. 

He couldn’t hope to take more than two at a time in a single engagement, especially if he only relied on his sidearm. Their armor looked as sophisticated as their chosen workplace would entail, so once his cover was blown, he’d have to forcefully requisition one of their rifles and pick his engagements carefully. 

“...so, from which department shall we begin?”

Snapping out of his tactical analysis, the peacekeeper glanced at one of the suits that had been showing him around for the first time since his “inspection” had started, flashing another practiced smile and nodding at a sign right behind him. 

“Experimental Avionics.” he spoke up, curt yet courteous.

Taking a second to gauge his response, Crimson One found himself focusing on this man’s facial features for a couple seconds - something he rarely did when talking to pawns like these. This one, however...aside from the dubious attempt at facial hair that stained his face, he didn’t look too different from him. They were probably the same age, and the accent that slipped under an otherwise perfectly standard Core speech betrayed his nationality - he was a Cascadian too. 

“Excellent, this way please.”

Yet, he was holed up in this maze of neon and concrete, spouting corporate code talk in his face without a care in the world. Not for his nation, not for his countrymen, not for him.

“Thank you.” Crimson replied, somewhat absent-mindedly: “Lead the way, please.”

What a waste of life.


	4. The Request

For all he hoped that this “surprise inspection” business had been either a prank or a misunderstanding, Lathinen eventually accepted that he was going to have to report to a stuck-up flyboy once said flyboy actually reached his office. 

By the Dust.

The engineer took what he hoped was going to be the night’s final sip.

This was going to be a pain.

“Good evening, Dr. Lathinen.” the peacekeeper spoke up, his tone surprisingly cordial.

“Good evening to you too, Captain…?” 

“Please, just call me Crimson. It’s what our people hail me as, isn’t it? I’d say adding any more to it would be redundant.”

Yup, just as he remembered him. This one had read too many comicbooks as a kid, he did.

“So, Captain Crimson, what does Icarus Armory’s Experimental Avionics department owe this visit to? I hear it’s some sort of surprise inspection, correct? I won’t lie, I’m impressed by Crystal Kingdom thoroughness - checking on us in the middle of a full retreat? I’d almost say I’m flattered.”

The flyboy took a moment to reply to that, it looked like something about what he’d just heard ticked him off. 

Weirdo.

“Well, you see...this inspection is actually tied to that: as you’re certainly aware, the rebel forces have been on a nigh-unstoppable rampage for quite a while now, employing mercenaries from several Rogue States to make up for their own strategic inadequacies. A most terrifying campaign, which has actually cost me more than just an aircraft or a few broken bones…”

Where the hell was he going with this.

“Oh, I’ve heard. The defeat of FP-01 at the hand of...mercenaries, was it? Truly a terrible loss, you have my most sincere condolences.” Lathinen replied, trying his best to match the pilot’s courtesy. A hard task, considering he wanted nothing but to kick this guy out of his office and sleep for two days straight.

“Indeed. So, that brings us to the reason behind this inspection.”

Here we go.

“It has become clear that stopping the rebellion by conventional means is impossible. Therefore, Crystal Kingdom has formally requested that you grant the Federation' top peacekeeper element access to the prototype in order to conduct a strategic air raid on the rebel forces - who are now making their way towards Presidia. The fate of this entire nation is at stake, so I hope you can understand and comply accordingly.”

Sigmund Lathinen’s expression was one of disbelief. He was not sure if he wanted to cry or laugh in this idiot’s face, so he just reached for his coffee mug and-

Wait, no. Not that.

He reached for a thermos, a thermos he hadn’t had the chance to drink from today - the emergency blend - and took a sip. A long sip. 

That boy had just about lost his mind.


	5. The Truth

Despite his relative youth, Crimson One had met his fair share of people throughout the many galas and conferences that punctuated his career as a peacekeeper. Most of them had curious quirks to them, and being heavy drinkers was certainly among the most common he had found - a testament to the corruption and depravity snaking its way into the ranks of the most powerful, no doubt. But no, that was not the time to reminisce about the state of the world’s leaders.

Because, despite all of that, the pilot had never seen anyone down an entire coffee thermos in one sip - something he was fairly sure could kill a man, depending on the blend and temperature of the beverage. 

This Dr. Lathinen was certainly a more peculiar individual than he remembered. 

“Alright, flyboy.” the engineer spoke up, his voice raspy from the impressive feat of drinking he had just pulled.

“You want me to believe CK themselves sent you - alone - to fetch a one-of-a-kind, unproven and most importantly UNFINISHED prototype aircraft, arm it with experimental weapon systems that are still being tested and just...take off to go shoot some hicks in gun trucks?” 

Now that was a massive understatement.

“Do you think I’m fucking stupid? Do you seriously think I’m an idiot? What the fuck do you think you’re doing here, you goddamn poster boy?”

And that was a sudden escalation to profanity, to say the least.

“You think the angry Caskies popping Cordium tanks and shooting down a couple jets are a threat? You actually think this stupid fucking war is the worst thing this planet’s facing right now? Are you seriously this fucking limited? Come on, open up, answer my fucking question.”

Trying his best to keep things reasonable, Crimson One politely raised a finger and mustered a response. He wasn’t going to let a caffeine-addled desk jockey instruct him on the nature of world peace.

“I’m afraid this is more than just “some hicks in gun trucks”, Dr. Lathinen. Mercenary presence in the nation has been destabilizing the battlespa-”

His explanation was cut short by a hand slamming against cold, stainless steel. Again and again, until he stopped talking. He remembered a few of his academy professors doing that, too - an attempt to assert authority that did nothing but expose their inability to listen to opposing points of view. What a sorry sight to see it happen again, here of all places. 

Yet, the pilot was curious to hear what this grognard had to say, so he complied. 

“Oh, mercenaries you say? Wow, this changes everything! It’s not just hicks in gun trucks now, but hicks in gun trucks with crop duster air support! How could I not see this sooner? My apologies then, I’ll lead you to Type A right away. Give them hell, Captain Crimson Man.”

If sarcasm had physical properties, this last volley of words would be something akin to birdshot - plentiful and dense, but rather weak once it hit something larger than a duck. Unfortunately for the doctor, Crimson was an eagle. Clearing his throat and locking eyes with the old man, who, clearly, was in the middle of a caffeine overdose, the peacekeeper spoke sternly and clearly.

“If you have no intention of aiding the Federation military in this grave time of need, I suggest you speak no further, give me the necessary clearance and step aside. Anything other than that will be taken as treason and trialed in accordance with Federation law. Your position won’t save you in a court of law, Dr. Lathinen.”

Perfect delivery, perfect choice of words - he’d never admit it to anyone, but sometimes the peacekeeper scared himself as much as he did as his targets. There was no one specific reason why Crimson One loved his job, but this one ranked fairly high in a long, long list. 

Yet, the engineer didn’t seem to flinch. He...had started laughing, actually? 

What the fuck?

“By...by the Dust! You really believe in what you’re saying, uh? You really believe we’re in some sort of crisis because a bunch of farmers who didn’t want to pay taxes raised a stink about it! Dust Mother, you’re just so precious. I...I really don’t feel like getting your gullible ass dragged out by security without giving you a proper rundown, actually. Come on, sit down, it’s story time.”

Halfway between amused and incredulous, Crimson One was...at a loss for words, really. He did not sit on one of the hideous steel chairs the mad scientist was now pointing at, but...the hint of mystery behind this man’s claims was just so endearing. It’d be like interrogating one of those cultist terrorists, he thought - something he had done a couple times, back when he was rank-and-file law enforcement. It would only take a couple seconds.

And if it didn’t, he knew what to do to make it so.

“Oh, you’re not gonna sit? Fine, whatever - must hurt to do that with that stick up your ass.”

That, however, was unnecessary.

“So, remember that dozen or so Cordium missiles some idiot in your department decided it was a good idea to shoot at Prospero? Yeah, those made quite a bit of a mess, didn’t they? Two months of geothermal instability, cordium storms, wildfires, total electromagnetic disruption...you do remember what other event featured these same characteristics, don’t you?”

Crimson one sighed, tilting his head to the side a little: “...the Calamity, why?”

“Well...turns out the Calamity wasn’t just that. It started as that. They stopped for a bit too, but then…"

Lathinen stopped mid-sentence, slowly took his glasses off and then resumed. His voice's pitch was lower now, and Crimson One could almost pick up a slight trembling in his cadence.

Where the hell was he going with this.

"...then things got uglier, much uglier than anyone really thinks or...remembers. Anyone but a few...devout people, who did receive a more or less accurate retelling of those events through tribalistic oral transmission, which later became a whole book. By the time that happened though, most of the ugliness had been scrubbed off, mostly to appeal to the rest of the common folk and help spread the belief a little better. After all, nobody would subscribe to a religion that...

Good lord - Crimson thought, trying his best not to slam his hand right into his face at terminal velocity - it was just like one of those cultists. 

So, fearing this would be the start of a similar hour-long ramble, he dared to speak up.

“...are you talking about the Church of the Dust? Is...is this a joke?”

Lathinen stopped for a moment, staring into his eyes with a look of utter defeat. Then, he let out a small chuckle.

“No, but I wish it was. It’d make my job much easier.”

His job? What the fuck did Icarus Armory have to do with all this religious drivel?

“So, airships right? You deal with those a lot, they’re basically the hottest thing in strategic weapons since nuclear bombs, right? Originally designed by one of my predecessors back in the Federation’s early days, they pretty much scared everyone else into joining up with the Core and...well...make a Federation. Ever wondered how those came about?”

All things considered? He did: for all the renown airships received from strategists and generals worldwide, they had never been more than flying dartboards to him - the few times he even had to engage them that is. Rogue captains were always an amusing diversion…

Before he could recall any of those engagements with better clarity though, a dossier was flying at him. He caught it on reflex, and the engineer chuckled again. On its cover, a sheet of black synthetic leather with no other distinguishing features, a strip of white paper read “A.C. 232 / C.o.t.D. Archive”. 

Without a second thought, Crimson One flipped the dossier open - he had no idea what to expect, but after that old man had edged him like that for more time than he should have allowed him to, he needed to know. 

...What the fuck?

That book was a collection of pictures, mostly taken at what he guessed were post-Calamity archeological sites. Pictures of wall paintings, then parchments, then paintings proper all containing variations of the same theme: a humanoid figure, whose silhouette seemed to don a bridal dress covered in wings, holding an enormous greatsword. It seemed to emanate rays of some kind all around itself, and in between the rays, at its sides...giant birds? They looked like they had wings, enormous, backward-swept wings, but no legs nor head. The shape was familiar, but he couldn’t quite figure where he’d seen it before.

Wait.

...Anuras?

Before he could think of anything else though, something else caught his eye - a shape he knew quite well, resting at the bottom of each illustration, its nose pointed up towards the larger humanoid. 

A...fighter?

Then it hit him. 

In one, quick step, the peacekeeper was in front of Lathinen’s desk, staring at the schematics sheet that had been in the corner of his vision this entire time. 

...the prototype?

"Yup…" the engineer nodded, flipping a couple more pages of the dossier as Crimson One’s eyes flicked from dossier to schematics trying to make sense of all of it.

"...and here's the kicker."

Snapshots. Two pages full of snapshots. Snapshots older than anything he'd ever seen, each portraying that same humanoid figure from a different angle, standing tall against the skyline of a city he couldn't recognize.

Lathinen flipped another page, and this time the subject were those "Anuras" - snapshots taken from the ground, depicting what looked like plain white Anuras flying under a dark, cloudy sky. Their surface was striped with glowing orange veins and...they had an eye. A single, enormous eye looking down at the surface. For a split second, Crimson could feel goosebumps along his entire body - almost as if something had awakened in him on an instinctual level. A repressed feeling of primal fear that was now dangerously close to breaking the iron floodgates of his mind. 

So, all and all, the peacekeeper was...not sure what he had just witnessed, but he knew that...whatever that was would haunt his dreams for at least a week or two from then. The implications behind those pictures were...disturbing, to say the least, but he couldn’t allow that to break him - not now.

“It’s supposed to be classified, mostly to prevent your average citizen from going insane and blowing their brains out from sheer fucking terror, but honestly? You deserve to know. You deserve to know how fucked we all are to make sense of why the Type A exists. Why, despite idiots like you, I’m still slaving my hours away in a ratty airbase like this. I hope you can understand and get the fuck out of my office now - It’s not like anyone will believe what you’ve seen anyway. Enjoy your new life as a mental ward patient, I guess - I’m clocking out.”

As the engineer got up from his desk, looking to walk out of his office and finally end his workday, the peacekeeper walked up to him. No, he blocked his path. 

“What, got something to say? I’ve already rung up security, you know? My desk’s got one of those panic buttons, you know the ones banks use? It’s quite handy, actu-”

Before he could finish the sentence, a gloved hand grabbed his face and slammed his head against the edge of his desk. Again and again. Until he...

Stopped. Fucking. Talking. 

Crimson One had enough. His cover was blown, his mind was a mess, and those same armed guards that had yearned for his attention before were now heading to his position to zip him up in a shiny new suit of full metal jacket. He needed to move, or Cascadia would be lost. 

Without thinking, he was already out of the office, sidearm drawn and-

“OH GOD! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO DR. LATHINEN?! PLEASE...PLEASE DON’T SHOOT!”

Oh, right. The man had a secretary. A secretary who had just started running. 

Crimson One sighed, then raised his weapon.

Acceptable casualties.


End file.
